Stagnant.
In a room with four walls.
Someone once told you that there were only three.
The fourth one is discretionary.
Like your income.
And your words.
They're always spilling out of you
  in an urgent attempt
To fill the vast distances
Between your miniscule existences.
But considerably more puzzling
  is the true purpose of your storytelling.
Vowels and consanants strung together
Wrap tightly around your indefinite spirit.
Swaddling it up as one would a newborn baby.
Leaving you stifled.
Mummified.